Albert Arenas took second place at Mugello, not handed, not gifted, but earned with speed, grit, and laser focus. A ride that felt more like a release than a result. For the Italjet Gresini Moto2 team, and for anyone watching close enough, this was more than a podium. It was a return. It was proof.

 

We were somewhere around Scarperia when the Prosecco began to take hold. The smell of racing fuel was thick enough to chew, and the sound, the sound came from everywhere. Engines howling through the hills, airhorns echoing off camper vans, and somewhere in the distance, some lunatic was revving a bare-framed engine like he was trying to summon the ghost of Nuvolari himself.

This wasn’t a racetrack, it was a cathedral of speed, carved into the green hills of Tuscany and filled with worshippers: sunburnt, flag-waving, and fully committed to their weekend. Some had been camped in the Tuscan hills since Thursday, grilling over open flames, laying out folding chairs, setting up tarps, and firing up little moka pots for coffee between laps.

 

It looked like a music festival, but these people weren’t here for guitars or bass drops. They came for horsepower. For the high-rev scream of Moto2 machines bouncing through the valley like a symphony of combustion and precision. They came with smoke bombs in team colours. With foghorns that shattered the morning silence. With airhorns, flags the size of parachutes, and more patriotism than some small nations.

 

Just beyond them, tucked behind layers of fences, scanners, lanyards and espresso machines, sat the paddock, calm, composed, almost meditative in parts. A world where every move had purpose, every sound meant something, and focus hummed in the air like electricity.

 

Normally, you’d find me out in the madness, somewhere in the hills with the diehards, trading stories over burnt sausages and making my way through a bottle of Jack Daniels. But not this time. This time, I was a very lucky man with a pass, getting a rare glimpse of what few truly see: the rhythm, the pressure, the quiet intensity that fuels everything when the lights go out.

The Italjet Gresini Moto2 squad rolled into Mugello carrying the weight of expectation, and the firepower to back it up. Testing in Barcelona had gone well: Arenas was fast, Binder was finding rhythm again, and the whole garage had that quiet confidence that something was about to click.

 

Mugello isn’t an easy mistress. It punishes hesitation. It flatters the brave. And it will chew you up if you arrive even slightly unsure of yourself. Albert Arenas came loaded for redemption. After a string of rough rounds at Silverstone and Aragon, the Spaniard was looking to erase the past and make Mugello his reset button. Darryn Binder, too, returning to the scene of unfinished business with a fire that ran deeper than most could see.

 

The early sessions confirmed it: Arenas was in form. Fast from the start, sharp through the curves, inching closer to the front row every lap. By Saturday, he slammed in a 1’49.857 and parked himself third on the grid.

“Front row at Mugello: it’s always great to go fast on this track! … We have a good balance and a good speed and tomorrow we will be consistent to fight at the front throughout the race.”
- Albert Arenas

 

Binder, on the other hand, had to grit his teeth. Mugello didn’t roll out the red carpet, it threw bricks. A tough Friday dropped him into Q1, where he clawed his way to 21st with a 1’50.756, not reflective of his raw pace, but proof of progress.

“We definitely made a step forward… Tomorrow will definitely be a long and very hot race, but we can compete.”
- Darryn Binder

 

Race day hit. Arenas launched. And not just well, he rocketed into battle like a man who’d spent the last three weeks rehearsing that start in his head. Fast. Composed. Tactical. He hunted. He defended. He danced through the fast curves of Mugello like the circuit owed him something, and he meant to collect.

 

He crossed the line P2, on the podium, back where he belongs. While he may have still been chasing a few seconds, the ride was damn near flawless. There was only one moment, a flash, when the rear snapped loose mid-corner, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it slide. But he caught it, reset, and was right back on the pace like nothing had happened. It was the kind of race that shows not just speed, but control. Composure. Real racecraft.

“We had a very consistent race, we managed to be fast until the end. It’s not a win, but it’s a great result that gives us motivation.”
- Albert Arenas

 

Binder’s fight didn’t show up on the highlights reel, but it should’ve. 21st to 15th, in hellish heat, on a recovering arm that still isn’t quite right. He dug in, made passes, and didn’t let the race chew him up.

 

I caught up with Darryn briefly, no fluff, just real talk. One thing was clear: Darryn loves racing. Doesn’t matter if he’s fit, injured, mid-pack or up front, he just wants to be on a bike. This season hasn’t gone his way. Two injuries. Broken rhythm. But there’s a grit in him that’s hard to miss. His left hand and arm have taken a beating, but he keeps going, not just because he’s chasing points or results, but because it’s in his blood. He’s here to race. Always will be.

For us at Italjet, this wasn’t just another race weekend, this was home turf. Our logo on the fairings. Our name flying through the Tuscan hills at over 280 km/h. That means something.

 

Racing isn’t just part of the Italjet brand, it’s in the blood. Leopoldo Tartarini founded the company in 1960, bringing bikes to life and racing them hard. Before Italjet, he was a factory racer for Ducati and Benelli, known for tackling some of the most punishing endurance races of his time. By the early 2000s, Italjet even showed up in MotoGP: a young Leon Haslam raced the Italjet GP 125 at just 16 years old, a reminder that Italjet’s roots in racing go deep, long before this latest chapter in Mugello.

Now, with the younger generation of the Tartarini family trackside, that legacy feels more alive than ever, quietly, proudly, humbly.

We didn’t come to Mugello empty-handed. The Dragster 700 came with us, our own two-wheeled lunatic, a machine so mad it stopped people in their tracks the moment they laid eyes on it. It didn’t just blend into Mugello’s madness, it felt right at home. Loud. Sharp. Unapologetic.

 

Somewhere between Imola and Mugello, we found the perfect spot. Exactly where the 700 will reveal itself over the coming weeks: revealing sound, presence, power. Trust me, when that moment comes, you’ll hear it ringing across the hills.

Albert Arenas made Mugello his. Not with noise, but with precision. Not with luck, but with fire in his belly and steel in his eyes. From third on the grid to P2 under the Tuscan sun, Albert didn’t just ride, he delivered.

 

And somewhere in that paddock, I was lucky enough to see it all, Prosecco bottle in hand, wide-eyed and buzzing.